


Her Kiss (that destroys), His Scent (that carries on the wind), His apology (unspoken)

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Reunions, Slow Burn, Werewolves, bisexuals everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: Jaskier suffers ongoing struggles to come to terms with parting ways with the witcher and lands himself in peril.Meanwhile, with Ciri at last in tow, Geralt attempts to seek out Yennefer at the princess's behest.When the two meet up again, things are more different between them than they'd expected, but less so than either'd like.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 322





	1. Liquor (that burns the throat)

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning that I am a dirty casual who is only familiar with the Netflix series at present. This is a slashy continuation of that anyway so kindly leave other expectations at the door. Still, I hope you all enjoy this foray into this fandom with me, it has eaten me alive.

He stared into the open stein and found nothing but the rolling dregs of what remained of his ale. The liquid, surely warm by then, sloshed pitifully, barely able to collect enough of itself to coat more than the inner edge in glistening disappointment. 

Jaskier had stared into many pints over the last few– _years?_ –months. Sadly none had deigned to gurgle up an answer for him, to provide him with any sense of comfort or direction. Affronted by its lacking presence, he stood and staggered back to the bar. 

He was met with pointed glances of exhaustion and weariness, but paid them no mind as he attempted once, then twice, to place his empty cup upon the counter top. It landed with a clatter that quieted the men perched on stools beside where he leaned for support. 

“‘Nother pint, fren,” he slurred through lips that barely parted through the weight of their own drunkenness.

“Told you that was the last,” the barkeep said in warning.

Even in his state, Jaskier recognized the tired threat and chose to push only once more. “‘At’s matter? My coin…” He blinked then opened his eyes wider to collect the light needed to power his brain to find the words. “Is not good now? Enough?”

“I soothe lonely souls here, bard. I don’t seek to drown them,” growled the barkeep.

Rage bubbled like the liquor in Jaskier’s stomach attempted to. He wanted to lash out, but if he was thrown or disbanded from one more pub there’d be none that side of the kingdoms left to stifle the ache in his head once it returned. 

_Fuck you, perhaps I’d like to drown in it,_ Jaskier’s buried wit thought in the hollow of its own echo-chamber. “Oh,” he muttered instead. “Oh, ohohooh! Okay!”

People around watched, ready to see a table go topside or to hear the drunken babblings of a bard that had come in singing for his drinks, but since had been reduced to begging for them on twice the coin. They were denied their presentation however, as Jaskier stumbled side to side then out the door on his last few good instincts.

With spoken instincts depleted, he blinked against the waning, yet still too bright afternoon sun. Once the color eased against his surroundings, he licked dry lips and staggered past the heaps of hay and horse shit, along the plotted stone road, and out toward the wood he’d come in from.

The other way held a bed, one he’d paid for and spent an evening in before leaving with his lute for libation. He fumbled his way from the pub as he’d come to it, with instrument strapped to his back and little else to his name. He’d come back for whatever he’d left when he could recall having left it, but for the moment he merrily meandered into the brush.

 _I want to see birds,_ he thought cheerily, absently as the fool went into the trees as darkness started to settle.

Jaskier didn’t make it long in before the grays and auburns of fading, stubborn winter had all blended into a wall through which there was little escape. He didn’t know how far he’d traveled and lost his sense of self in the calming, deadly wood. He had no business there, drunk and weak as he was, yet he trapsed absently, almost gleefully into the unknown.

There were no birds, or else their songs could not be heard through the pounding, whooshing sounds in his own ears. His head was thudding, rushing from his sudden and unending motions. The colors around him twirled with his dizziness, folded and pulsed in and out of perspective. His lashes fluttered as he slipped in and out of awareness of his own actions. The liquor inside him sloshed and shook, twirled up nausea that eventually vented itself through his mouth and nostrils.

He braced himself on a tree as he heaved, then wiped his face clean on his sleeve. The burn in his sinuses sobered him just enough to ground him, plant him back in one spot, no longer spinning. The woods was dark. Had he really been wandering that long?

He looked around in confusion and saw no sign of the town through the trees. No sign of anything really. “Fuck,” he wheezed. “Where am I now?”

He took two steps forward, nearly fumbled over a twig, and paused.

“Hello?” He called out, in hopes someone nearby might hear and lead him back inland. His own echo came back to him four-fold and he looked around with mouth agape in concern. “Well, shit.”

Jaskier stepped back until the lute flung onto his back hit the bark of the tree he’d braced against. He wrapped his arms about himself to block out the breeze that was penetrating his silks. The air was chilly, but that wasn’t his greatest concern. If he didn’t get back soon there would be no guarantee he’d get back at all.

He silently cursed himself for being so drunk before that he had wandered off, and for being so drunk still that he didn’t know which way was which. With a sigh and a raw throat, the bard set off in the direction he believed he had come from.

Of course, that seemed to only make matters worse. His tired legs carried him over stone and sticks and he only wobbled when his concentration did, but the woods seemed to go on and on, an endless labyrinth.

Eventually though, his ear did catch hold of something beyond his ragged breath and the chirring of insects. A crunching, like feet on scattered debris, the snapping of twigs, the rustling of leaves. 

“Hello?” he called out again, relief clear on his worried features. “Is someone else there?”

He was certain he had heard life and moved toward it.

“You traveling inta town? I got a bit–little bit–turned around. Good t’ hear another soul out this time of night!” He was impressed by how steady his voice sounded, the slur nearly departed, though he felt he barely had control of it and rambled on as he usually did. “You wouldn’t happen to know the way back?”

A low growl met his curiosity and Jaskier stilled his motions. A rustling followed. Then another growl, closer, just beyond the bushes ahead.

The bard backed up slowly. “You’re not–you are not people.”

What he saw next was a black blur. A great beast of fur and teeth and outstretched claws. 

“No! Not people!” But he didn’t have a chance to flee before the giant arched creature was upon him. Jaskier let out a scream as he felt first the swipe of nails like daggers along his arm and then the burning, radiating heat of pain that exploded from his shoulder as teeth latched to the junction where his neck connected to his limb. 

He flailed and fell back, beast atop him, as he made his way to the ground. The last thing he heard, before the sharp blow of a rock slamming the back of his head took him to merciful stillness, was the sound of a bomb erupting.


	2. Travel (which always leads back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Geralt seek out Yennefer and find someone else instead.

There had been a blessed serenity to Geralt’s days since his encounter with Ciri. He did not believe in destiny, but it clearly believed in him, and to be relieved of its watchful, baleful gaze for a time made all the burdens that came with their union tolerable.

There were, of course, many burdens. Ciri, for all her sweet nature and child innocence, still harbored her grandmother’s stubbornness. She had been incessant that they locate Yennefer and could not provide Geralt with a meaningful or substantial reason for why. 

“I dreamed about it,” the girl would remind him whenever he expressed hesitation at their search. She would say it with such regal authority, such matter-of-factness that Geralt was unsure if he wanted to discipline the presumption out of her or merely bow and agree.

Inevitably he did neither. Rather they merely came to the resolve that they would head in a single, instinctual direction, and if they found Yennefer–well–Geralt was done picking a fight with fate. 

There were other matters that put them at odds though, the witcher and his  _ dear _ charge. For starters, traveling about on a horse with a single sling could be rather dull. While Cirillia had been burned by her time in search of Geralt, she still possessed a certain entitlement that led to her making times of discomfort and boredom quite apparent.

It seemed young girls were fond of stopping for things like sleep, food, and urinating. In fact, Ciri was so regular Geralt could judge the daylight by it and had begun to subconsciously do so. If ever he denied her such pit stops, he would suffer either the cold shoulder of a woman-in-training or the fits of the slighted child she still embodied.

Also, on the matter of food and wares, it seemed higher demand on the same old coin led to running out of that coin much faster. Thusly devoiding the witcher of his  _ other _ needs. Which, in turn, led to increased frustration and unneeded nettling between the two opposing companions.

“You know, you’d have more coin for–for–for whatever it is you so greatly need if you took on more work. Aren’t witchers monster hunters? When are you planning on doing that?” Ciri asked critically around bites of the roast goose leg she was shamelessly enjoying.

A rumble of discontent rolled up in Geralt’s chest like a warning. “Aren’t little girls that eat up their caretaker’s finances supposed to express gratitude? When are you planning on doing that?”

Ciri swallowed thickly and her eyes darted to the dirt in shame. Geralt felt instant guilt. If he had saved or else been balancing her on his budget years ago the circumstances would not be as they were.

“It’s dangerous. It’s difficult to kill monsters when there are extenuating factors to consider,” he explained.

“You think I’ll get myself killed,” Ciri scoffed, her ego returned to her on spite. “I’m not helpless.”

“Just the opposite problem. You’re capable. Just not as capable as you think.” Geralt lifted a twig and stabbed at the fading firelight. Embers trembled under the prodding and lit up fresh little waves of flame that flickered and warmed the chilly night air.

“You want me to stay out of the way,” Ciri said bitterly.

Geralt’s glance confirmed her suspicions.

“Fine. I will.” Her voice was firm and Geralt looked into her eyes and saw she was earnest. 

“Then I will ask around when we reach town,” he said softly, and when Ciri smiled in reply he knew he was getting better at this.

***

The two reached town by the next midday. It was more of a small village, that was neither teeming with refugees like other havens they’d visited, nor was it so scarce that the witcher was left to wonder where they might buy their next meal. A happy middle, a good place to find work and perhaps a bed for Ciri for the night, even if Geralt wouldn’t be able to manage one for himself.

Leading on foot and guiding Roach by the reigns, Geralt started right for the pub, when Ciri cleared her throat in subtle reminder. Dragging the princess about public places was not particularly safe anywhere, but a house of booze was really no place for a young girl.

They ended up settling in at an eatery instead. Geralt felt out of place at the much smaller tables where people mostly ate and chattered, but it suited him to see his charge seated someplace more elegant than the dirt in the woods.

They hadn’t eaten yet, so he used one of his last pieces of copper to buy her some bread and watched her eat. He hoped he didn’t call up too much attention in his dark clothes in the middle of the day, but of course catching eyes seemed even more natural to him than killing beasts.

Thankfully, the man that approached seemed both timid, and perhaps a bit weighed down with his coin, if the way he was nervously palming rattling pockets was any sign. Geralt would be happy to lighten his load.

“You, you’re a witcher, ain’t ya?” The man was balding on top and short and plump. He barely met Geralt’s eye standing and the latter was still seated.

Ciri looked up and her eyes danced eager between the two men. “Yeah, that’s him.”

They’d have to have a word about her speaking for him, but for the time Geralt let her off with a sour glance. “The girl speaks the truth, what can I help you with?”

“Oh, it’s a relief that it’s help you’re offering! There’s a monster what’s been coming round. I’ve a farm just on the edge of town–”

“Your cattle have dwindled I presume? Could be anything,” Geralt said, though he wouldn’t turn down the work either way. The jingle still coming from beneath the nervous man’s hands sounded like bread for the witcher too.

“That’s just the thing, if it just be cows I could have fought it off myself. Thought it was a fox at first, wolf if unlucky. But it took one of my daughters! Went missing ‘bout a week ago now. And just two nights ago I done found a lad in the woods, shoulder torn out. Finally got a look at the beast too.” At this the man lowered his voice. “Is a werewolf if ever I’ve heard tale!”

Geralt sighed. “Likely not. Many things with teeth prowl at night and leave deadly marks. Many more have a taste for cows. Of course, if you’re that worried, I’d be happy to put your mind at ease.” Golden eyes made no effort to hide his pointed stare.

“Oh! Of course!” The man shuddered and scrabbled to pull two small bags from his slacks. He handed them hastily to the witcher and nodded. “Please. I know what I saw! If you can make work of it, I have more crowns than that to offer.”

Geralt accepted the payment, paid no mind to Ciri’s excited grin in the process, and confirmed with a sullen nod. 

“Oh, thank ya! Could I ask what I should do with the boy?”

“The boy?”

“The one what were bit. My daughter–the eldest, one the monster left–been trying to take a knife to the poor soul in the two days I’ve cared for him. But being that he didn’t turn–”

“He’s still alive?” Geralt’s brows wove together as an idea began to form. “You didn’t mention.” If it was a werewolf he could find out quickly. The texture of the bite would tell the tale and the poor doomed soul could aid the witcher. Though, a survivor made the case even more unlikely, werewolves ate their victims and left little else than bone behind.

“You want to meet him? He’s chatty, but polite. And he’ll tell ya what I seen.”

“Yes. Ciri, here.” Geralt reached into one of the pouches and pulled out a few pieces to give to the girl. “Take this to the inn and get a room. Take Roach.”

“I want to stay with you!” Ciri said at once. “If it’s a wolf I could–”

“No. You agreed.”

The girl’s jaw quivered, but shut. She had no argument and didn’t venture to make one. At least this once–or at least for this one moment–she would be true to her word. She stood, took the last of her bread, nodded politely, and was on her way.

Geralt, relieved by small favors, turned his attention back on the man. “You should know now, that if what you saw was a werewolf, the boy will likely die. He was bit two days ago?”

“Yes’sir,” said the man, as he nervously wrung his wrists.

“Hmm. Then it would be off the moon, since that’s two days from now. Odds are he’ll succumb to his wounds or turn on the full. If we wait until then I can follow him to the leader, and end them both.”

“Oh, seems such a waste.”

“Could be anything,” Geralt reminded the man. Then he rose to his full height, one which towered over the small farmer, and the two set off toward the farm.

***

“Ugh, hurts,” Jaskier whined as he slowly, groggily woke. His shoulder burned and he made a grab for it, but that only made it hurt worse. He hissed and withdrew, then clucked his tongue when the gesture was met with an icy laugh.

“Are you going to do that everytime you wake?” The words came from the beauty looming over him. She was tall and fair, with broad shoulders and wind-chaffed skin born of hard labor, but the pretty features of a well-bred noble woman. Her name was Zofia Nowak and in that present moment she was lazily drenching a rag in a bucket of water just before she slapped it wetly to Jaskier’s feverish face.

“Ow,” the bard lamented with eyes screwed shut to block out the warm splash. He pushed the rag up upon his forehead and exhaled slowly through his lips. He truly felt unwell, but tried his best not to show it. “I know you want me dead, darling, but you don’t have to speed it along.”

“Don’t I? Father won’t let you leave till you’re well or dead. And the former won’t be happening, werewolf saw to that.” Zofia sat back down in the chair by his bedside, a place she’d been frequently over the last few days she’d been caring for Jaskier upon her father’s behest.

“I-I still think it was a normal wolf,” Jaskier stammered, though his words felt less certain with each passing moment. Despite his increased liveliness as he’d come out of a two month bender, he was getting hotter, weaker by the day.

“Normal wolves don’t take whole chunks. Normal wolves don’t steal a man’s color.” Zofia pointed accusingly at the bard’s pale, tired face.

Jaskier shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Word is I’m usually on the pasty side so, you know, I don’t know.”

“Joke all you like. You’ll be leaving here on the back of a cart.”

“At least I’ll get to see your lovely face before I go,” Jaskier chuckled and lifted his brows suggestively.

Zofia scoffed in disgust and snatched his rag to remoisten it.

Jaskier, deep inside, feared what she said was true. He’d been a fool and soon he’d die a fool’s death.  _ As alone in death as in life. Oh, what woeful strife,  _ he thought with a sort of bitter malcontent. The worst of it was he’d be lost to no one. This girl he did not know would pity, not mourn him. And he would leave no one behind. No one waiting. A blessing in disguise, perhaps. Or probably just cruel fate. He would have written a song about it, but his weak arm could barely hold itself, much less his lute, and in the end who would bother to sing it?

Thankfully, his swirling thoughts of the abyss were shattered by the sound of the front door swinging open. They were at the back of the house, so Zofia called out to her father.

“We’ve company,” came the farmer’s voice. The heavy footfalls of the squat man were followed by even weightier ones, a larger man walking in step just behind.

Then the old man came through the bedroom door, offered Jaskier a kind smile that was burdened by something else–sadness? regret?–and spoke. “I found someone to solve our problem, Zofia dear. Maybe even find your poor sister.”

An instant later this savoir came through the doorway, all sullen expression and stoic magnetism. Jaskier’s mouth fell open, he thought he had to be hallucinating. Yet the witcher, with eyes wide and biceps twitching in surprise, looked equally alarmed.

“This is Geralt of Rivia, he’s a witcher,” said the farmer obviously.

“I’m saved,” croaked Jaskier.

“Fuck,” said Geralt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been overwhelming so far! You guys are making my day with the comments and kudos, please keep letting me know what you think! I'm really loving working on this and would like to keep up on it as much as I can. I hope you enjoyed the update :)


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